Marigold
by Emerald707
Summary: In which, Zetsu and Hinata have a history. Mild, cracky romance and Het.


**Summary: In which, Zetsu and Hinata have a history.**

**Disclaimer: Ain't mine, officer.  
**

**A/N: This is a story that I wrote because I lost a bet, but hopefully you'll like it anyway. This has also been published in the story collection 'Siderite' by my fanfiction husband Jaggarte x, who you can find in my profile. I strongly suggest you check out his stories, if you're inclined to other cracky Het pairings.**

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**Marigold**

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"_And he spread his arms wide to receive the angel storming down upon him. He already could feel the thrust of the dagger or sword tickling so wonderfully against his breast..." _

– _Perfume: The Story of a Murderer, Patrick Suskind._

* * *

The day draws long.

It is times like these, when there is only him, the cool late afternoon breeze on his skin and the quiet of his own thoughts, that he may feel, at last, at peace.

Konoha has always been one of his favourites. Fewer people, less security, so many places to hide. So much green. The fact that the Akatsuki found it to be of particular interest to their future goals certainly didn't hurt his willingness to play 'guard' on missions such as these. Sitting on the borders of the Leaf village, casting his chakra far and wide for any sign of hostility, and simply waiting certainly isn't the worst job the Akatsuki have ever had him do.

Head enclosed in the dark, warm mouth of his plant-like shoulder growths, soft grass beneath him, the quiet of the trees all around, Zetsu can almost imagine himself at home.

It is the sudden shuffle of dry leaves, soft enough to be a mouse, sounding somewhere to Zetsu's right, that pulls him sharply from his thoughts. Peering through the teeth of the trap-like case around his head, his gaze scours the surrounding trees. A tense silence follows, and finding nothing, no single sound, he shuts the world out once more.

Several deeps breaths draw him deep into photosynthesis again, all thoughts of the world drifting steadily away, until the sharp snapping of a twig fills the air, directly in front of him.

He tries to ignore it. No insect, no bird, no stray cat is going to ruin his one moment, the only brief reprise from duty he is allowed. He pretends, does not move or make a sound, but can not help the way his body tenses, his teeth grit, as he feels the intruder move around him – as though searching for some recognisable feature, for the man beneath the plant.

When something small and soft brushes against the fabric of his heavy cloak, Zetsu has had just enough, and snaps the jaws of his protective casing wide open, poised to devour whatever foul creature dared disturb him so – and instead finds himself faced with a very small girl.

Snarl retracting, Zetsu stares at the tiny figure. Two bright lavender eyes peer back at him, awed and curious, but not afraid. A bright summer kimono is tied around her diminutive frame, ornate and laced in gold. Her hair, which must be quite long and midnight black, is plaited and arranged about the heart-shaped face - not by her, Zetsu is certain, but gentle, caring hands. A single flower, the colour of the sun, is folded behind her ear.

Zetsu knows instantly that she is a Hyuuga. An important one, likely, given the care for her appearance – though not much loved, perhaps, if she is allowed to wander so far. She gazes as keenly back at him as he does to her, a mutual discovery – and then, decidedly, she smiles, and plants herself down in front of him.

Zetsu watches wordlessly as she mimics his posture, stubby legs folding beneath her with some effort, hands placed carefully on her rounded knees, then beams at him as though pleased with herself. She can not be more than two years old.

It occurs to Zetsu to eat her anyway, but instead, after a thoughtful pause, he moves himself closer, slowly lowering his face to level with the child's, carefully smelling and assessing her.

In response, she both blushes and, with clear determination, gives him a loud and exaggerated sniff in return.

He decides at once that she is delightful.

The corners of his mouth curl upwards briefly, and he leans back once again. She copies him, straightening her posture and setting her face in an expression which, he supposes, is meant to match his own, though it looks more like she is suffering from some form of bowel problem.

Slowly, naturally, he returns to his meditation; feeding on the sunlight that filters through the leaves overhead and listening to the gentle quiet of the woods, though he does not close the protective plant growth about his head, or resist the urge to glance at the girl every now and then. Once or twice, he catches her peeking at him in return, only to squeeze her eyes shut again.

If the girl minds the silence, she does not show it, seemingly content to merely keep him company. He wonders, unintentionally, if she knows what kind of man he is, that there are shinobi like him in the world, or that there are lands beyond these woods, like the one he comes from, where peace and safety are hard to come by.

Someone must be looking for her. Were they worried? No doubt they would be, if they knew the company she was keeping. Did they care about her? Not enough, it seemed, to keep a watchful eye.

If she were his responsibility, he would do better, he thought. Never let her out of his sight, one so small and so fragile. In fact, if she were his, he would keep her far away – far enough that no one would ever be able to harm her.

He could take her with him. Not to the Akatsuki, no - to them, she would be nothing but a ransom. He would hide her away, then, in some distant place that only he knew. He would visit her every day, and bring her only the best; his greatest kills, treasures from far away nations. Whatever she wanted. She would be happy, far happier, with him.

Of course, when at last she feels his gaze upon her, and opens her eyes, and smiles, he knows she will never be his.

Beautiful things don't survive hidden away in the darkness.

When he feels the familiar tug of his chakra, the signal that all is done and his mission is completed, it is time to go. Distantly, he can hear a woman's voice calling for the girl.

He stands, and instantly she knows. A frown mars her delicate features, and tears rise to her eyes. It is all that Zetsu can do not to snatch her up right there. But the voice sounds distressed as it calls her name, and the tugging is insistent.

He turns from her, and feels his cloak catch. Peering down over his shoulder, he sees two chubby little fists clenched in the black folds, and feels barely a pull as she uses it to haul herself to her feet. When her eyes meet his again, she is holding something in her hand, offering it up to him. It is the flower, the one from her hair.

He hesitates, thinks long, before slowly lowering his hand, and accepting the gift. The only one he has ever been given.

He holds the flower carefully, delicately in roughened ivory fingers. She smiles again, and yanks on the sleeve of his arm. On instinct, he lowers himself to crouch before her – and quick as a flash, cheeks burning pink, she plants a sloppy kiss on his black cheek.

He is so stunned that he hardly feels the angry tugging of his chakra, hardly hears the woman's desperate calls, hardly sees the rush of the leaves as the girl turns and flees, back to her home.

It takes him a good deal longer than it should to turn again, tuck the flower safely into his cloak, and walk away.

* * *

The night draws long.

She has been pursuing him for what seems like hours, but has been mere minutes since she lost sight of her squad, taken out by traps that detonated too quickly for her to detect, lazily thrown kunai that too easily found their targets, and simple exhaustion from the hunt.

The speed and endurance of her opponent alone is frightening, only barely traceable by her Byakugan, but it is his power that she dreads. He is Akatsuki, the red cloud floating behind him in the wind, a sinister promise of the secret horrors he may conjure – and when at last this chase comes to a stop, she will stand alone against him.

He is finally slowing, the ceaseless vigor with which he bounded through the trees ultimately giving way, and far ahead she can see him come to a stop, deep in the woods that border Konoha.

His cloak billows around him, the shallow clearing providing little enough of the moonlight to see him by, but Hinata sees. The jagged, monstrous appendages that flank his head, the split of black and white skin, the heavy, ominous chakra that surrounds the disfigured man.

She lands a good distance behind him, but he does not falter – swinging and lunging for her, arms extending unnaturally, impossibly far – and she has only just the strength, the dexterity to raise her kunai in time to clash with his, to land a carefully placed jab in time for the strike of his kick.

The back and forth of their assault drains what little fortitude Hinata had been saving, sweat beads on her brow, but she pushes herself to dodge the sweeping thrust of his arm, to land the next devastating blow at his heart - and when at last they leap apart, she is bleeding and damaged, but for the first time, she sees that he is too.

Hunched over himself, his one black hand clenching the dark strain on his abdomen, face beaten and scratched, it seems that his flight from the underground cells of the Leaf village have not left him unscathed. He is considerably hurt, in fact – bleeding at too steady a rate, breath coming too quick, and as her eyes lower to penetrate his chest, she sees his heart is struggling under the strain of his injuries and her attack.

It is startling to know that she is moved to compassion for this man.

But even that is nothing compared to the expression that crosses his face when at last he looks up, and his yellow eyes lock onto hers.

Something in his face, in the way he looks at her then, stills her. His eyes are wide, his mouth is slack, and there is something conflicted in the way he can't quite bring himself to look away from her, or her from him. She is poised to strike, but finds she cannot move under the weight of his gaze. The distant familiarity of it. The softness in his eyes.

Where has she seen him before?

The faraway beating of feet on wood draws her attention sharply to the woods behind them, and she knows her back-up has arrived. Fleets of the best shinobi the village has to offer, vying for the chance to take down a member of the Akatsuki, hungry for his blood. It will be moments until they are upon them.

For no reason that Hinata can name, she feels fear.

It is a split-second decision, driven by foolish mercy, and not the hard logic of a shinobi which sends her across the distance of the clearing to him, which moves her hand to grasp his arm, and pulls them both to the safety of a large hollowed oak tree, the last secret refuge of Konoha shinobi looking to escape pursuit.

Yanking open the hidden door, Hinata shoves both herself and the Akatsuki inside, closing it firmly behind them. Outside, the arrival of the others can be heard, their voices raised in concern, anger and confusion.

The man's eyes are fixed on her face, and Hinata cannot help the flush that rises to her cheeks. There is not enough room to manoeuvre, and only now does she realise that in her haste to hide them, she has pressed herself close, chest to chest with the man that she herself had been hunting not long ago.

He stares at her unabashedly. Her eyes flicker to his and quickly away again as she waits out the minutes of searching. The layer of wood between them and the Konoha shinobi cannot be breached, even by her keen eyes, and soon enough, their pursuers move on.

They listen carefully to the steady departure of footsteps leaping through the trees, until they are absolutely certain that they are alone. A heavy silence passes between them, and finally, Hinata forces herself to meet his gaze. There are things she would ask, and say, if she were bolder. Instead, she turns, as much as she can, and opens the latch to the door.

Peering around the corner of the opening, she slowly emerges into the forest, the presence of the man close behind her. Out in the open, she can see the trail that the others have left behind, and knows she will have to follow them. She doesn't know what she will say, how on earth she will explain her disappearance, the escape of the Akatsuki.

Suddenly, there is a light pressure on her shoulder - and when she whips around, yellow consumes her vision. She takes a step back, momentarily alarmed, before she realises it is a flower. A large, golden flower, perfectly in bloom.

Held aloft in the man's ebony fingers, it dawns on her that he is offering her something – something that might potentially be dangerous, almost certainly a trap. But his expression is so sincere, so unassuming, that she can hardly resist committing her second deadly lapse in judgement for the night – and accepts his wordless gift, fingers lightly brushing his.

Quicker than a flash, she feels the pressure of something soft against her cheek, and then he is gone. Heart in her throat, she casts her Byakugan through the trees, but can see no sign of him.

It takes her a great deal longer than it should to catch her breath, place the flower delicately in the pocket of her jacket, and move once again.


End file.
